


Exhume

by Loktipus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternating Points of View, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Exposition, Exposition like woah, F/M, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, I may have actually managed to make the last 4 seasons worse, I'd ask Lucifer to take the wheel except wtf are cars?, I'm Sorry, I'm really very sorry, I've done something horrible, M/M, Mindfuck, Necrophilia, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, unbetad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:52:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loktipus/pseuds/Loktipus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've done much worse than you've discovered together. He swears it wasn't you, but he's wrong. It was you, it always had to be you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhume

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Don't ask. You really don't want to know. 
> 
> Takes place from 5.22 onward. If you haven't reached that point, you will have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.
> 
> There is Necrophilia and Rape in this. There is torture, dubcon, and probably a myriad of other horrible triggering shit. 
> 
> Honestly Sam isn't even in my top 5 favorite characters, It would figure that my first fanfic for this series since livejournal would be about him.

There were precepts to being a Winchester.

The largest and most glaringly obvious of them all seems to be the prerequisite to lie uncontrollably, especially in times where you really REALLY shouldn't. The constant inner monologue of reasoning, that you'll wait for something better, that you'll deal with it when time allows, never does much to soothe at the inevitable (because it is always, always inevitable) explosive burst of truth. The likes of which always seem too come out in the worst ways and the most inopportune of moments. 

But this time, this time, there is no one left to ask.

...

It all began in a pit, in the center of what might be some manner of Earth. Down below, where not beasts but angels carved and burnt away the remnants of humanity in you. Hooks that were not hooks held you in place. Fire that could not be fire burned you first at the skin, melting, cooking, cracking, peeling. Meat sizzled and smoked as it cooked, and you are reminded of a house on the side of a highway in Heaven where your mother spoke of a roast born of her flesh. 

Micheal is the one who cooks you, satisfied to burn your essence to nothing in his rage. He has been denied his right and purpose. An existence of a promised outcome with nothing to show for it. The sad thing is your screaming tore your throat to nothing what seems like years ago. You can't tell him that Lucifer didn't try very hard to fight you in those last moments. There's nothing but imagined ground meat in what serves for your esophagus, wrapped tightly in burnt tissue paper flaking off with each silent outburst.

Lucifer who sits in the corner trailing frozen fingertips down a shivering mass of boneless flesh that somehow still manages to draw breath. It's torment that lacks the rage that Micheal pours into his slowly cooking flesh, salting the exposed muscle and marrow beneath. All the fire and wrath of God, up against cold calculating acceptance. 

There are moments of peace in between years when the Devil and God's left hand take more interest in each other and you can almost see that look of resigned loss in eyes you once shared when they looked into the eyes of a brother who wouldn't give up, who wouldn't leave, who was every bit as prepared for death as you. Because there wasn't a life worth living without you in it, and some disconnected part of you sees that. A million miles away, in a place where you are and yet cannot be. 

The thing that will carry on with you the longest is the acceptance in the eyes of the devil, and the sickening realization that you've seen it before.

…

You dream sometimes, though the dreams are far away disconnected things. An older man walks beside you and stares at you sometimes in what feels like fear. Other times respect. Your hands and eyes and mouth are not your own, and you are cold, and you are cruel. You reason that this is a dream where the devil won, but it feels too much like you. The devil is not cruel, he only is as he is made to be. When the fighting started he pleaded with his brother for it to stop, and knowing this you're even more sure that the hands that kill must be yours. 

There is a lull and Micheal gets what he assumes to be bored, for there is a sweet reprieve from pain. You sleep deeply during this time. The dreams become less smoke and more funhouse mirrors, all too real but viewed through the brown acid. Dean is not there, but in that time you become grateful for it because you can't imagine him having to see this. Your inhumanity, the cold ruthlessness of your drive to survive. 

This mirror becomes your existence and though you have no control, you become to accept it, and question the lack of it. Frostbitten whispers in your ear tell you that this is how it always was, and how could you think it was ever any different? Dean left, you told him to walk away after the swan dive. Months after pulling yourself from the abyss this is what is left. How could you ever be any different with the left hand of god and the devil having burned beside you?

The murder becomes commonplace, the casualties and collateral damage are slowly filed away to a place where they can't hurt you. There are women who want you, and the few who don't you have anyway, because you want them and why shouldn't you have what you want? There's screaming and pleading, but more often than not it doesn't last long. There's no patience left in this mirror you, and snapping their neck seems so much easier than nursing bite wounds and threatening a line of witnesses. After all, ash can't identify it's attacker.

If you feel cold hands brace your shoulders and an intrusion forcing it's way into you, you pretend not to notice. There can't possibly be anything worse than the feeling of a once warm body cooling around you as you finish, not even when far away in what feels like a dream your insides tear and bleed and are suddenly filled with the same cold.

Somewhere in between burning the bodies and leaving town you hear laughter, and the sounds of your own screams.

….

After awhile you begin to lose time, days at first, then weeks. The day comes where the man you're sure is your brother stands beside you and a fear unlike any before erupts in you. The memory of the smell of roast and the feel of paper skin is nothing in the wake of your fear for what is yours. What must be a thousand years has aged him in ways that seem like far too much and not nearly enough chronologically. 

The memory of cool hands on your shoulders, a loud crack, and warm receding as you drive into it has you scraping at the walls of your mind so desperately you're sure you'll burrow through the flesh of your own skull.

You have never been so terrified of yourself.

Scraping at the flesh coated walls of your brainpan days blackout around you until a smile works it's way onto cruel lips. Self satisfaction courses through something metaphorical to your veins when a blood red smile is smeared on pouty lips that used to kiss you to sleep when you were young. 

There is nothing except screaming and fire for the first time in a long time, until you wake up with an axe in your hand and resignation in your heart.

The world is silent after and strangely soft against your skin. You wake to an echo of fire held behind a wall, cold hands ever present on your shoulders and a coldness deep within you. That's how you know that this is real.

…

Much later you will tell Dean that you can't remember. Except this is where the lies begin, because you can. Maybe not all at first, but the you that was not you shared your meat and your brain works just as well as it ever has. You've done much worse than you've discovered together. He swears it wasn't you, but he's wrong. It was you, it always had to be you.


End file.
